


Control

by sofia_gigante



Series: Dark Knight, Bright Son [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: After care, Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Bottom Clark, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Dominant Bruce, Established Relationship, Flogging, Fucking Machine, Kryptonite, Leather Fetish, Light Angst, M/M, Mind Games, Negotiations, Orgasm Denial, Porn, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Toys, Sexting, Smut, So much smut, SuperBat, Teasing, Top Bruce, submissive Clark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I’m going to keep you right on the razor’s edge tonight. I’m going to push you, and you’re going to push yourself. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to know how much strength of will you have inside of you, and it will amaze you.”</i>
</p>
<p>After almost a year, Bruce and Clark resume their games again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lists

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [控制](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476618) by [ginettecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginettecat/pseuds/ginettecat)



> Big, huge thanks to my amazing beta reader, Castillon02!
> 
> Begins one day after the end of [All is Calm, All is Bright](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6359014), which can be read first for context, but otherwise this can be enjoyed on its own.
> 
> While the majority of the serious smut is in chapter 3, the entire story is extremely NSFW. Enjoy!

“So, ready to talk?” Bruce pressed a hot, lazy kiss to Clark’s shoulder, relishing the rare taste of his sweat. Clark had _really_ been moving. Both of them had.

Clark laughed, face still buried in the sofa pillows. He turned his head just enough to look up at Bruce, his cheeks flushed, his smile blissful. “Can we at least clean up first?”

“Fine. You’re so fastidious,” Bruce play-grumbled. He reluctantly peeled himself away from Clark, his sex-flushed skin already missing the feel of Clark’s against his. Clark slid out from under him and padded toward the bathroom.

It had been far too long since they’d had sex—two weeks, maybe more. Between preparing for the holidays, end-of-year duties at Wayne Enterprises, Clark’s _Daily Planet_ deadlines, and the influx in crime and the rise in weather-related emergencies that always happened around this time of year, Clark and Bruce had barely had time to talk. Sure, they’d spent Christmas together two days before—and that had been its own kind of surreal wonderful—but it had been a decidedly chaste affair.

So, when Clark had come home early from work to find Bruce waiting for him on the sofa, wearing nothing but a sly smile on his face, Clark had pounced. Good thing Bruce had remembered to bring the kryptonite ring with him. Maybe he should make a second one, for Clark to keep…but no. That would present security concerns if someone found it. However, if Bruce could find a way to conceal the Kryptonite, perhaps with a thin layer of gold, it would just appear like a normal ring…

“What are you calculating?” Clark was back, wearing only a pair of faded sweatpants, and he already had his glasses on and his ring off. Back to being normal Clark. He handed Bruce a washcloth and a navy blue bathrobe, and then plopped back down on the sofa with a sated sigh. “You have Batman face.”

“Do I now?” Bruce snorted as he cleaned himself. He didn’t bother reaching for his clothes, folded carefully on the overstuffed chair beside them, he simply wrapped himself in Clark’s bathrobe. It was a size too big for Bruce, and smelled warmly of fabric softener and Clark’s shampoo. It was almost as nice as feeling Clark’s skin against him, possibly his favorite part of the post-coital ritual in Clark’s apartment.

Huh. They’d been doing this long enough to have rituals.

“Maybe you should think about keeping a few spare changes of clothing here,” Clark said casually, not looking directly at Bruce. Seemed like he was thinking along similar lines. “Pajamas. A toothbrush.”

“You saying my breath smells, Clark?” Bruce teased, trying to hide the sudden quickening of his pulse.

Clark pinned Bruce with a half-exasperated look, his eyebrows knitting together. “Neverm—”

“I’d be happy to, Kal. It’s a good idea,” Bruce said softly, reaching out to grab Clark’s hand. Clark’s expression quickly softened in pleasure, and he squeezed Bruce’s hand. Clark could be so sensitive right after sex. He was the most vulnerable to perceived slights, but also open to new ideas. It was why Bruce had figured having sex first would be a good idea before launching into this new discussion.

“So,” Clark looked down at their joined hands, then back up to Bruce with a shy smile. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“I do.” Bruce squeezed Clark’s hand once before letting go.

He sat forward far enough to reach his folded pile of clothes, and pulled out a crisp, cream-colored envelope from between his slacks and his shirt. By the time he sat back, Clark had a folded square of white paper in his hand. He held it out to Bruce, and when Bruce took it, he felt Clark’s grip tighten on it. Bruce held out his envelope to Clark.

Clark’s pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Bruce’s stomach fluttered as they sat there, both holding both lists. He wanted so badly to get this right, to encourage Kal to explore this part of himself again without scaring him off.

“I…I don’t know how to start this,” Clark admitted, a red flush creeping over his cheeks.

“Do you really want to start this?” Bruce asked slowly. He’d asked Clark the same question yesterday over the comm, but now that he could see his face—and he’d had time to think—he had to ask again.

“Yes,” Clark said, his tone confident as he met Bruce’s eyes. “Do you? I mean, I won’t be hurt if—”

“Absolutely,” Bruce said with quiet vehemence. “Nothing would bring me more pleasure than to be able to play with you again, Kal.”

Clark’s face broke out into a wide, beautiful grin, and Bruce felt himself returning it wholeheartedly. Well, they were off to a good start. Clark let go his grip on his paper, and Bruce did his.

Bruce looked down at the square in his hands, his heart pounding. On this paper was written the key to unlocking Clark’s most private fantasies, his deepest desires. Clark held the same power in his own hands, and the force of that realization rocked through Bruce to the core. Yes, they’d played these games of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure before, but never with their entire beings. They’d always held something back—names, identities, confidence. Now, though, with so much genuine trust—genuine _love_ —between them, they could go so much farther than they had before.

“These lists seemed like a much better idea yesterday.” Clark laughed nervously.

“It’s still a good idea,” Bruce said gently. “Would it help you to read my list at the same time I read yours?”

“Maybe,” Clark admitted. He hesitated. “What if our lists don’t match up?”

“Then we negotiate. Though I seriously doubt that’s going to happen. I seem to recall how compatible we were.” Bruce gave Clark a shrewd little smile.

Clark tried to return the smile, but it came out slightly strained. “We were— _are_. But, I’m different now than I was a year ago.”

“I know,” Bruce said quietly. He knew what Clark was talking about—the incident in the warehouse, where Clark had undergone hours of torture while suffering from kryptonite poisoning. He didn’t talk about it much, saying that he had mostly processed what had happened, but Bruce knew that ordeals like that imprinted themselves on your soul. Superman had suffered pain at the hands of enemies before, but not while powerless like that. So even if Clark rationally understood the difference between real torture and games of dominance and submission, it didn’t mean that Bruce wouldn’t trigger a genuine fear reaction if he wasn’t careful.

“I promise you, Clark, I will do everything in my power to make this only positive for you,” Bruce said.

“I know, which is why I trust you.” Clark twined his fingers in Bruce’s again. “Why I’ve always trusted you.”

Bruce’s heart fluttered. No matter how many times Clark said things like that, Bruce felt like he’d never get used to hearing them out loud. _I trust you. I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me._ Clark had even taken to calling Bruce “dear” when they were alone. Clark practically bled emotion, where Bruce had finally gotten to the point where he could say “I love you” without hesitating. Clark didn’t seem to mind. He knew Bruce felt the same way, even if he had trouble voicing it. So, Bruce did everything in his power to _show_ Clark just how treasured he was. These lists were a big part of that.

Bruce let go of Clark’s hand. They stared at each other for another moment, anticipation growing palpably between them. Then, Clark licked his lips, and slowly opened the envelope. Bruce took it as permission to unfold the paper in his hand. He gave the list a cursory scan, a smile creeping over his face as he read. However, when he got halfway down, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, heat flushing over his face.

“You hate it,” Clark muttered.

Bruce looked up over the paper to see Clark watching him, not reading Bruce’s own list. His face was scarlet, his fingers twitching as if they were ready to snatch the paper back. He glanced over his glasses, and for a moment Bruce wondered if he was thinking of using his heat vision to try to burn the paper out of Bruce’s hand. Bruce put the list down on his lap to discourage him. Clark wouldn’t risk damaging Bruce just to hide his secrets.

“I don’t hate it,” Bruce soothed. “Not at all. I’m just surprised. You’d never mentioned some of these before.”

“They…they never came up,” Clark said. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, and it was such an endearing little tick that Bruce didn’t know if he wanted to devour or comfort Clark. Maybe a little of both. Which was exactly what all this was about. “You never asked me what I wanted before.”

Bruce felt a hard kernel of guilt grow in the pit of his belly. No, no he hadn’t. He’d just invented games and toys, and used them on Kal without negotiating. To be fair, Kal hadn’t really asked Bruce what he’d be willing to do, either, what his limits were—and they’d both accidentally crossed each other’s lines at the same time. That wasn’t going to happen again. Ever.

“Nothing on this list shocks or disgusts me at all, Kal,” Bruce said. “I’m completely in accord with everything I’ve read so far. Especially these first few: No metal cuffs, only leather or rope restraints; no electrical play; no bright lights in your face. Done.” All these were things tied to the torture, and Bruce didn’t blame Clark one bit. These were things he’d already considered, and were easy work-arounds.

Clark nodded, relief smoothing his brow a bit. “I wasn’t worried about those, really. I knew you’d understand. It’s…it’s the other ones.”

Bruce looked at the list, and cocked an eyebrow as he read out loud, “I want you to wear leather. Pants, boots, it doesn’t matter. Something leather.”

Clark gave a helpless little shrug. “I...I liked how it smelled on you, back when you were wearing the suit. A lot.”

Bruce chuckled. “That can definitely be arranged.” He was already thinking of just what kind of ensemble to put together. He’d be lying if he said the idea of wearing leather didn’t appeal to him as well, though he suspected that Clark’s fascination went a bit deeper than Bruce’s.

Bruce looked back down at the list and read the next point Clark had written. “No blindfolds or masks, for now.”

“I hope that’s OK. I know we used to play with the blindfold a lot, and I liked it, really, but—”

“It’ll remind you too much of the abduction?”

“No. I just really, _really_ want to watch your face when we play.” A shy smile crossed Clark’s lips. “It’s pretty much all I ever wanted. To see your face.”

Warmth spread through Bruce, before it was stabbed by a dull lance of guilt. God, they’d gone about this all so, so wrong.

Clark’s brow furrowed, and he put a hand on Bruce’s forearm. “Bruce, dear, it’s okay. I understand now why you kept it on.”

“Read the first one on my list,” Bruce said quietly.

Clark nodded, and turned his attention to the paper in his lap. He opened the tri-folded parchment, and Bruce held his breath as Clark’s gaze traced across the first point Bruce had written. Clark’s eyebrows raised, his eyes softened, and he looked over the paper at Bruce.

_One: I won’t be who I used to be for these games. If you want, I will create a new persona similar in demeanor and attire, but_ he _will not be used for these purposes anymore._

“Oh, Bruce,” Clark breathed. “That went without saying.”

“Still. I felt it was important to say it, since we’re detailing everything.” Bruce looked down, suddenly unable to bear Clark’s loving scrutiny. He still wondered sometimes—more often than he liked to admit—if things would be the way were now with Clark if Bruce hadn’t met him first as Batman, a dark demigod who was more symbol than man. He knew it wasn’t fair of him—since Bruce himself had first found himself falling for Superman before he’d even known that Clark Kent existed—but Clark Kent wasn’t so much a mask as it was a facet of the whole. Batman was very much a mask, living armor, and Bruce wondered if his appeal to Clark hadn’t been in his coldness, his untouchability, wanting what he couldn’t have—

Clark’s hand slid over Bruce’s cheek, encouraging him to look up. Bruce hesitated a second before giving in, bracing himself to feel the full force of Clark’s unwavering adoration. It was like staring at the sun sometimes—warm and gorgeous and utterly blinding.

“You are who I want, Bruce Wayne. Not Batman,” Clark said firmly yet gently. He brushed his thumb across Bruce’s cheekbone. “If _you_ want to create a new dom persona, I’d enjoy that, but if you think it’d be too similar to being Batman, I understand.”

Bruce covered Clark’s hand with his own. He kissed his palm once before letting go, then sank back into the couch cushions with a little sigh as he considered.

“I think it would actually be easier to create a new role,” Bruce said slowly, thinking. “Not a character with a name, per say…”

“Look at number seven on my list,” Clark said quietly, his cheeks suddenly going red. “I don’t think you got that far.”

Bruce looked. As he read, he felt a slow smile spread across his face.

_I want to call you Sir._

“I…I know it’s a bit cliché, but…” Clark was chewing his bottom lip.

“Do I get to call you something, then?” Bruce asked suggestively. “I don’t see anything here about nicknames for you?”

“You call me Kal-El,” Clark whispered, the flush on his cheeks deepening.

“I do, but I call you Kal in front of Alfred now, or when we’re arguing about where to order dinner from.” Bruce scooted a little closer, cocking his head curiously. “Reading this list, it’s obvious you have some specific ideas about what you want, Kal. I don’t know what you’ve been reading or watching to give you these fantasies, but I need you to know, I am very, very eager to make them come true.”

Clark’s next breath came as a soft, shuddering sigh, and his eyelids fluttered closed as he stuttered, “B-boy.”

“Boy.” Bruce’s smile widened as he weighed the word on his tongue. It was the opposite face of the coin to ‘Sir.’ That would be more than natural. “My boy.”

Clark shivered, the effect immediately. His eyes opened, and he looked at Bruce with a mix of disbelief and adoration. “It’s not too much?”

“Kal, my love, I will call you anything you want to make you happy, and I mean it. Especially if I’m in a ‘Sir’ sort of headspace.” He let his smile curl up wickedly on one corner. “Is that all you want to be called?” _Slut? Pig? Cocksucker?_

Clark opened and closed his mouth, the words stuck in his throat. Bruce could practically see those names flitting across his mind by the way his lips twitched. Finally, Clark cleared his throat. “I think just ‘boy’ for the first time,” he said. “We can work up to other names later.”

“So, just to be clear, it’s not humiliation you’re after.” Bruce scanned the list again.

Clark shook his head. “No. I don’t want you to insult me or spit on me or…” he waved his hand, an uncomfortable grimace on his face. “No bodily fluids but come.”

“God, what kind of videos have you been watching?” Bruce murmured, eyebrow quirking.

“The kinds I don’t have to pay for,” Clark answered, his voice curt in his embarrassment.

“Mmm. I think I know what to get you for your birthday.” Bruce pitched his voice low. Wouldn’t hurt to start practicing his dom voice, fine-tune it to find the perfect tone that would put Clark in the right headspace. “Maybe I can show you some of my own favorites.”

Clark shivered, bit his lower lip. Yes, that voice was definitely on the right track.

“Or maybe we should just make our own.” Clark looked as surprised to have spoken as Bruce was to hear his suggestion. Bruce scanned the list in front of him quickly. No, there was nothing about recording or voyeurism. So, this conversation really was working to plumb deeper into the depths of Clark’s desires.

“You want to watch us.” Bruce made his voice even deeper, similar to Batman’s but silkier. He leaned forward, traced a lazy finger over the curves of Clark’s firm pectorals. Clark was already leaning into him involuntarily, his pink lips parted in a soft little gasp. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. No mask, no blindfolds…you really want to see all the ways I’m going to play with this gorgeous body of yours, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Clark whispered.

“Yes, what, boy?” Bruce purred.

The effect was immediate, Clark’s entire body tensing, his eyes going wide and bright as he sucked his lower lip between his teeth. Bruce ran his finger down to Clark’s nipple, flicking it lightly. Clark jumped, and Bruce had a feeling round two was in their very immediate future. God bless Kryptonian physiology and its remarkable recharge time.

“Yes—yes, Sir,” Clark stuttered, barely loud enough to be heard.

Clark was barely done speaking before Bruce crushed his lips against Clark’s. Clark moaned softly, his mouth yielding immediately to Bruce’s hard kiss. Clark’s hands came up to pull Bruce closer, but Bruce only felt the barest brush of fingertip across his shoulder before it was gone. He pulled back just a bit and opened his eyes, and saw Clark’s hands hovering at shoulder-level, as if he’d stopped himself from gripping Bruce’s arms. There was something about the gesture, how his wrists were presented to Bruce,  that gave Bruce the urge to grip them and pin Clark down.

It was that small gesture of instinctive surrender, more than their conversation, their lists, that convinced Bruce that these games really were something Clark wanted for himself, not just something he was doing to please Bruce.

“God, you are hungry for this,” Bruce murmured.  He couldn’t help it. He grabbed Clark’s wrists, gripping tightly.

“You have no idea.” Clark shuddered in pleasure, his lips parting again in invitation.

Bruce accepted, kissing Clark again with heat, with force. He scraped his teeth against Clark’s bottom lip, just enough to make him gasp, and he felt Clark’s entire body gravitating towards him like a magnet…

Bruce pulled back with a little laugh. “You’re floating.”

Clark blinked in surprise, the spell broken as he looked down and realized that Bruce was right—he was hovering a few inches off the sofa, practically into Bruce’s lap. A strange furrow creased his brow, and his blissed-out expression hardened into a little frown.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he drifted back down. “I forgot I took the ring off.” He easily extracted himself from Bruce’s grip with a simple wrist-roll, and Bruce was about to be impressed that his lessons had been sticking when Clark turned away with a deep, shaky breath. “I could use a drink. You?” He got up from the couch, and putting Bruce’s list down on the table, headed for the kitchen. “You want a beer? No, you’re probably going out tonight. Tea?”

Bruce was surprised. Clark was genuinely embarrassed. He was hardly ever embarrassed about his powers, not like this. Curious and concerned, Bruce followed him into the narrow kitchen, tightening his bathrobe about himself. He put a hand over Clark’s to still him as he gripped the tea kettle.

“Don’t ever apologize for who you are, Kal,” Bruce said quietly. “Especially not to me.”

Clark didn’t look at Bruce; instead he focused on the kettle. “I could heat this water with my vision. Or by vibrating the kettle so quickly it super-heated. Or fly it up to the sun.” He slid his hand out from under Bruce’s, and twisted the knob on the stove to turn on the burner. “Instead, I use the stove. Like everyone else in this country does. I pretend…I pretend I’m normal.”

Bruce swallowed hard, not quite sure what to say. He was used to being the maudlin one, not Clark.

“It doesn’t matter how badly I want to pretend, Bruce. How many lists we write, how many scenarios we come up with,” Clark whispered. “In the back of my mind, I know the only thing that gives you power over me is that kryptonite ring. Without it, I can break any bonds you put me in. I could easily overpower you. Hurt you, if I’m not careful. These games are just an illusion.”

Bruce thought for a long, long moment, staring at the flames dancing underneath the kettle.

“Of course they are,” Bruce said carefully. “They’re an illusion we’re building together.”

Clark stopped, and turned to Bruce with a curious light in his eye. Bruce met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Even with that ring, even if you were a human man, there would be one thing that would never change.” Bruce stepped closer to Clark. “The only power I have over you is the power you have freely given me.”

Clark looked unconvinced. “But if I were human…the restraints…my strength—”

“You would be free the second you asked me. I’ve already proven that, haven’t I? The bondage is an illusion. It’s a game, Kal. It’s a very serious game, but a game nonetheless. One we build together.”

Clark swallowed hard, looking down. Bruce placed his hand lightly on Clark’s back, urging him to turn into his embrace. When he was facing Bruce, Bruce did something he rarely ever did—he reached up and pulled off Clark’s glasses so he could see his eyes. Those beautiful eyes, usually as clear and blue as the Midwestern sky on a summer’s day, were shadowed by his doubts.

“When you first came to me for these games, I thought it was because you wanted me to _make_ you feel helpless. Human. Now, looking at your list, what you’re asking for…it’s not just about being physically helpless. You want to relinquish your will. Your control.” Bruce felt Clark quiver in his arms, and he knew he was on the right track. “You think it’s about harnessing your raw strength. It’s not,” Bruce changed his voice, pitching it low and silky again, “it’s about what I can make you do just by ordering you to.”

Clark shivered.

“I know you, Kal.” Bruce pulled Clark closer, pressed his pelvis against him, pinning Clark against the kitchen counter. “You want to be cared for. To find freedom in surrender, release from both your powers and the responsibilities you bear. I can give that to you…but only if you obey.” Bruce leaned forward so that his lips brushed against Clark’s ear, and he growled softly. “I don’t care if you can fly to the moon, or if you can cut through steel like paper. If I tell you to hold still, you’ll hold still. If I tell you to kneel, you’ll kneel.” Clark swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Bruce’s jaw. Good. He was getting through to Clark. “Not because I force you to through brute strength, but because you _want_ to, don’t you Kal? You want to surrender to me. Trust in me.”

“Yes,” Clark whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.” It was an explosion of breath rather than a word, and Clark was leaning into Bruce, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Good boy,” Bruce purred. He slid his mouth around Clark’s jaw, hovering just an inch away from his lips. Then, with a wicked little smile, he stepped back. He arched an eyebrow at Clark. “See? It’s not about the bondage or toys. It’s about the mind games.” The kettle behind them began to sputter and whistle, and Bruce turned the burner off. He opened the cabinet that held Clark’s modest tea selection. “Now, what are you in the mood for, wildberry zinger or mint medley?”

He stole a look at Clark, who still stood stunned. Finally, his face broke out into that sweet, familiar grin, and he laughed incredulously, then let out a long breath. “You’re such a tease, Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce said just as easily, “and I’m going to be even more of a tease for the rest of the week.”

“The rest of the week?”

“Mmmhmm.” Bruce busied himself with tearing open the packets holding the mint tea bags and pouring the water into the mugs. “After tonight, you’re under strict orders not to get yourself off until I let you. Which will be on Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Clark spluttered. “That’s six days from now!”

“And the day after New Year’s, so hopefully things will be quiet enough so we can take the night off. If not, you’re going to have to wait another day or two.”

Clark crossed his arms and fixed Bruce with a curiously playful look. “All right. So, I don’t get off in six days. That’s not as hard as you think, seeing as we just went two weeks without—”

“Really? You didn’t jerk off even once in those two weeks?” Bruce fixed Clark with a smug little smile.

Clark’s cheeks colored, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he busied himself with pulling the honey off the shelf and putting it beside the steeping tea. “Fine. I promise I won’t get myself off all week.”

“I’m not going to make it easy on you. By the time you come over, you’re going to want it so bad you’ll do just about anything for me.” Bruce dunked the tea bag in his cup, watching the fluid darken.

“Promise?” Clark said, and there was a soft, needy edge to his voice that made Bruce stop and turn to him.

“Oh, I do. I promise I’m going to hit everything on that list of yours.” He held up his hand, and began ticking off points on his fingers. “I’m going to make you beg. I’m going to use you without letting you come. I’m going to push you to the limits of your endurance, and then some. I’m going to surprise you with some new toy of my inventing—”

“I’ve really, really missed those,” Clark murmured.

“And when it’s over, I’m going to stay with you, as I should’ve every time before.” Bruce slid his arms around Clark’s waist. He leaned into Clark, and growled, “I am going to take such good care of you, my boy, you’re going to have to fly everywhere the next day because you won’t be able to walk.”

Clark had gone warm and liquid against Bruce, his breath panting, his eyes bright. His cock was hardening through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and Bruce pressed one of his thick thighs between Clark’s legs just to hear him gasp, make him rub against him—

“But that’s Saturday.” Bruce pulled away and turned back to the tea, pretending innocence.

Clark’s strong hands wrapped around his waist, and before he knew what was happening, Clark had spun him around to face him. He kissed him, hard and hungry, and Bruce felt so lightheaded he thought he was floating.

They _were_ floating, and this time, Clark didn’t look ashamed. He looked downright pleased with himself.

“You said after tonight. Which means we’re not playing yet.”

“No, we’re not.” Bruce kept his tone light, his smile sly.

“Which means I can still just scoop you up and fly you to the bedroom.”

Bruce shrugged, even as he wrapped his arms around Clark’s neck in preparation. “If you want. We still have a few things on my list to go over. Costuming, safewords, selection of toys. Would you prefer the flogger or the single tail…or are you more into paddles these days?”

“After,” Clark growled, low in his throat, and drifted out of the kitchen with Bruce in his arms. Even last week, this would’ve bothered Bruce, felt invasive. But for some reason it just amused him…and aroused him. “I’ve had as much of your teasing as I can take.”

Bruce gave a low chuckle. “Oh, Kal. If that’s true, then you have a very, very long week ahead of you.”

“So I’m going to get as much of you as I can now.” Clark kissed Bruce, mid-flight.

Bruce felt practically giddy under the force of Kal’s naked want. Before he knew what was happening, he was being dropped onto Clark’s bed. It wasn’t far, just a couple of feet, but it was enough to make his robe fly open, expose his slowly hardening cock to Clark.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re quite the pushy bottom, Kal?” Bruce asked, watching as Clark slid his kryptonite ring back onto his finger. Clark crawled onto the bed towards Bruce, giving him no choice but to lie back against the mattress.

“Only you, dear,” Clark said. He kissed Bruce’s inner thigh, and gave him a devilish smile.  “Now. Tell me more about what you have planned while I get to work.”

Bruce shook his head in amazement. This…this was going to be one hell of a week.


	2. Choices

From: Tom Finland <tfinland1938@gmail.com>  
To: Metro Boy <metroboy_S@gmail.com>

Subject: Choices

Clark looked around nervously at the _Daily Planet_ office as he held his smartphone, his heart hammering. It was the Monday morning after Christmas weekend at 10:47 a.m., so anyone who wasn’t still on vacation was engrossed in their computer screens, phone calls, or cross-cubicle conversations. No one was paying attention to him in the slightest.

He knew he should wait until he got home to check Bruce’s email. He had spent most of the train ride in trying to switch his headspace back into his professional, Clark Kent mindset, but memories of the night before had kept pressing against his thoughts. To be fair, he could’ve pushed them aside easily if he’d wanted to, compartmentalizing them in that way he did all distractions when he had to focus on being Superman. He hadn’t though. He’d _wanted_ to remember, to feel the ghost of Bruce’s touch on his skin, the gorgeously dirty promises he whispered as Clark had writhed and bounced on top of him on the bed.

 _“I’m going to torture you all week, boy, without touching you once,”_ Bruce had promised, his voice silky and strong.

 _Boy._ Clark shivered, and looked at his new email name. These private emails had been Bruce’s idea, of course, and he’d set them up himself in such a way as they would be hard to trace to either of them remotely. Though, of course, anyone could peer their head over the top of Clark’s cubicle wall and look at his smartphone screen, see the first move in Bruce’s dirty little game.

“Choices,” huh? It was an innocent enough subject line, but it could mean anything. Clark chewed his bottom lip and scoped the office out again. It…it couldn’t hurt to take just a quick look just to kill his curiosity, then he could get back to work. He tapped open the email.

Two pictures of huge, erect cocks greeted him. He slammed the phone to his chest, his face burning. God, wow, um…this…this was just jumping in headfirst, wasn’t it?

“Hey Smallville, you got a minute?” Lois’ head peered over the top of his cubicle, a sheaf of papers in her hand. “I need to talk to you about these notes you took at the last city council meeting…” She stopped as soon as her eyes shifted from the papers to Clark’s face, and her eyebrows knitted in concern. “Clark, you all right? You look kind of flushed.”

“Yeah! I’m fine!” Clark inwardly cursed his nervous tone, and tried to force himself to calm down. She hadn’t seen the screen, he could pull this off.

Lois’s dark eyes narrowed curiously, though, and she looked at the phone clutched to his chest. “Did you get some bad news or something? Your parents OK?”

Great. Now Clark felt more foolish. _No, no, everything’s great. Just looking at some surprise porn my secret boyfriend sent to me on Monday morning to kick off a week of kinky BDSM games we’re playing._

“It’s not my parents, it’s…” Clark felt an odd knot in his chest. He hated lying, especially to Lois. Sure, he kept Superman a secret from her, but other aspects of Clark’s life he was relatively open about. She’d met his parents when they visited Metropolis, they worked together on difficult stories, they’d catch the occasional Metros game together. If Clark really thought about it, Lois was pretty much the best friend he had, and deep down he knew if things hadn’t developed with Bruce, Clark probably would’ve pursued her. But things were the way they were, and Clark hadn’t quite found the courage to tell Lois about Bruce. Hell, he’d just told his parents he was bisexual last week, and Clark would really, really rather not have to come out to Lois because she happened to see a couple of dick-pics on Clark’s phone.

_Oh, Bruce. I wonder if you hid a camera somewhere so you could watch this happen._

“It’s my apartment,” Clark settled on. “The upstairs apartment flooded and my landlady needed to get into mine quick. I didn’t really have a chance to clean up this weekend, so just thinking about the laundry everywhere—”

Lois gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Only you, Clark, could blush so hard thinking of a little old woman seeing your tighty whiteys on the ground.” She shook her head, her expression somewhere between exasperation and affection. She turned back to her papers. “Come on, focus. What did councilman Curry mean when he said…”

Clark managed to stumble through the rest of his consultation with Lois, and then he made a dash for the men’s room. He locked himself into a stall with a sigh, and slumped against the tiled wall as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He slid his thumb on the sensor to unlock his phone, extra glad for the security feature as the dick-pics greeted him once more. His face heated again, but this time he was able to see what Bruce has meant by the subject line “Choices.” Each cock was adorned with a thick metal cock ring—one in chrome, one in dark, oxidized metal.

_“I’m going to decorate you like a Christmas tree, boy, deck you out in more metal and leather than a motorcycle.”_

Clark let out a shaky breath, the nervousness churning in his belly actually fueling his arousal now that he knew he was safe. God, he’d never really pegged himself for an exhibitionist—especially since exposure of his real secret was such a source of real stress—but this…this was surprisingly exciting.

He looked at the two cock rings, then typed out a quick reply— _The silver one._ He had just slipped his phone into his pocket when it chimed and vibrated, announcing the arrival of an email. His suspicion was confirmed as he checked—yep, it was from Bruce.

_How’s work, dear?_

Clark let out a sharp, short laugh, shaking his head. Fucking Bruce.  It was only when Clark got back to his desk that an odd realization rocked through him—Bruce had called him “dear.”

Now that he knew what to expect, Clark was a bit more careful throughout the rest of the week. The emails came sporadically, and always at the worst times—when Clark was in meetings, or at lunch with Lois and Jimmy, or out working in the field. He would see that subject line again, “Choices,” and his heart would beat a little faster. It was like having a present you had to wait to unwrap, and by the time he was sequestered in the men’s room he was practically vibrating with anticipation.

The emails always contained two pictures, each presenting garments or toys. Smooth riding boots, or laced-up combat style? Bulldog chest harness, or classic crisscross design? Leather pants, or chaps? Bruce never specified if the garments were for him or Clark, but Clark could wager a guess most times. With each new email, Clark’s excitement would build, his body responding more eagerly each time.

Then, on Wednesday night, a new email was waiting for him when he got home late from his Superman patrol. This subject line was “Happy Early Birthday,” and all it contained was a shortened link, a user name, a password. Clark switched from his phone to his home laptop, and once he was sure he was in incognito mode he clicked the link.

_Oh. My. God._

Of course Bruce’s favorite porn site would be the premium stuff that Clark only ever got to see snippets of on the free sites, the stuff with hot actors, good lighting, interesting sets. There were so many to choose from— _Commando Cocks_ , _Bears Behind Bars_ , _Jerk-Off Jocks_ , _Ride ‘em Cowboy_.

A text message pinged from his phone, and Clark had to practically tear his eyes away from the screen to check it. It was from Bruce:  _remember, hands off._

Clark whimpered low in his throat, his cock already hard from those few seconds scanning all the titles available. God, even when Bruce was on patrol he was playing this game. Must be a slow night in Gotham. Clark picked up his phone and typed. _You said no getting off. Not no touching._

Clark waited. Ping.

_You really want to defy me, boy?_

Clark’s cock jumped again.

 _Pick your favorite to watch,_ Bruce wrote.

Clark’s heart was beating furiously, blood pumping so fast he was lightheaded.

The next message came. _If you’re having a hard time choosing, I suggest “_ Slut for My Sir _.”_

Clark moaned audibly, feeling his entire body going hot and feverish. He scrolled down until he found it, the teaser picture of a dark-haired, naked hard-body licking a shiny black leather boot. Clark hesitated only a second before clicking on it.

Ping. _Now sit on your hands._

Clark paused the video. He couldn’t help himself. _How am I going to text you while sitting on my hands?_

_You’re not. You’re going to watch the whole thing, all forty minutes. Then you’re going to shut off your computer and go to bed. Do you understand, boy?_

Clark’s cock was so hard it almost hurt, and he hadn’t even started watching the video yet. _Yes, Sir._

_Good boy. I’ll expect a full review tomorrow night._

_Yes, sir._

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

Clark put the phone down, his heart as warm as the rest of his body. Once he was sure Bruce wasn’t going to message him again, he turned his attention back to the computer screen. Time to see exactly why Bruce had picked this one, though the title made it clear enough. He started the video, and, just as Bruce had ordered, he sat on his hands.

Clark barely slept that night, and when he did, each and every one of his dreams involved Bruce, a pair of high leather boots, close-ups of wet flesh, and the echoing moans of the actors in the video. When he awoke the next morning, he was even more aroused and restless than he had been the night before. God. It was only Thursday. New Year’s Eve, to boot.

He was starting to have to compartmentalize to function, to use sheer force of will to squeeze all these distractingly erotic thoughts into a locked box in his mind. If he let his mind wander, then his consciousness immediately turned to his endless want, the flood of sexual images Bruce had been bombarding him with all week. The only real relief he got was when he was in Superman mode, when his laser-focus kept him in the moment, on the people he helped, the villains he fought. Whenever he was back home, though, relaxed and alone, he existed in a perpetual state of need, his breath held for Bruce’s next message, next set of instructions.

New Year’s came and went, his and Bruce’s kisses and greetings exchanged over text message. Clark knew it was far too volatile a holiday for Bruce to leave Gotham, and flying to see him would just be distracting to both of them right now, break the beautiful tension that they’d been building together all week. He figured Bruce would be too busy to do anything new. Until a text came an hour after midnight.

_You watching your videos? Like a good boy?_

_Yes. You know I am. Wishing you were here to watch with me._

_How much?_

Clark’s lip quirked into a curious smile. _You know how much._

_No. I think I need to see._

Clark’s mouth went dry. Was Bruce really asking him to…

_Take a picture and send it to me._

Clark’s entire body went hot and electric.

Another message from Bruce. _I want to see just how hard you are. If you’ve been a good boy and kept your hands off._

Clark looked around, as if there was anyone around to watch. He didn’t know if the thought excited or terrified him. Both.

 _I promise this is a secure line,_ Bruce prompted.

Slowly, Clark picked up the phone and switched it to camera mode. He pulled down his sweatpants and briefs, just enough to expose the erection that seemed to have been his constant state of being for days. Then, before he lost his nerve, he snapped a picture, with flash. He barely looked at it, he was so embarrassed, and he sent it to Bruce, triple checking to make absolutely sure he was sending it to the private number that Bruce had set up just for this.

 _Gorgeous._ Bruce wrote back immediately. _I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that hard before._

_I don’t think I ever have been._

_You’re going to be even harder tomorrow night._

Clark groaned, dropped his head. One more night, one more day to get through like this. He’d thought that Bruce had only been threatening last Sunday, trying to psyche Clark up. He’d had no idea just how hard it was going to be to live in this continual state of denial.

_Patience, my boy. I promise, it’ll be worth it._

“It better be,” Clark grumbled out loud, though deep down his belly quivered in anticipation. Instead, he typed, _I know it will be, Sir._

_You have no idea._

Clark smiled. He couldn’t wait.

Really. He couldn’t.


	3. Starlight

Saturday night had finally arrived.

No more waiting. No more suggestive emails, teasing text messages, porn videos watched with his fingers digging into the chair beneath him. Clark’s whole body had been thrumming in anticipation all day, and now that he was finally flying through the secret entrance to the batcave’s antechamber, he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. Steel-winged butterflies buffeted his belly, and his heartbeat was already racing like a bass drum.

This wasn’t simply a culmination of a week’s worth of planning—this was an adulthood’s worth of desire. Every fantasy Clark had ever had about playing these sort of games had always been with someone he trusted, cared about…loved. Batman had been close, so close to who Clark had wanted: a trusted comrade, almost a friend. But Batman had never been a true lover; Batman didn’t love. Bruce did, though, and deeply. Clark was dying to find out what would happen when Bruce mixed his imagination and planning skills with his feelings for Clark. Tonight, at last, Clark would have what he’d always wanted.

Or at least…he hoped he would.

He landed gracefully on the walkway that led from the crack in the cave wall to the large, suspended platform where Bruce had set up their original play-space. However, it only took a quick scan for Clark to realize that it didn’t look much different than it had a week ago when he’d hidden the giftwrapped batarang under the covered gurney. Most of the equipment was still covered in white sheets, and Bruce was nowhere to be found.

Clark’s heart sank into his stomach. Had something happened in Gotham while Clark had been on his way, demanding Batman’s immediate attention? No, Bruce would’ve pinged him on the watch-comm if that had been the case. Was something else wrong? Or, was this some genuinely sadistic streak of Bruce’s rearing its head, and he was going to force Clark to wait another day or two just because he _could_ —

A thin, high-pitched chime echoed through the cave, interrupting Clark’s rapidly deteriorating train of thought. He cocked his head, honing his super-hearing to pick up the sound again. Yes, there it was again, pulsing through various frequencies—frequencies only animals, high-tech equipment, or Clark’s super-hearing could pick up. He’d heard it before. Suddenly, he understood.

He followed it to the gurney, and pulled back the white sheet covering it. He smiled as he saw a batarang laying there. It wasn’t the one he’d left for Bruce. This was a sonic batarang, with a frequency emitter embedded in the center—the type Bruce would use to signal to Clark when he was ready to play.

As soon as Clark picked up the batarang, a second high-pitched chime called out from further into the cave. Curious, and more than a little cautious, Clark followed the sound until he found another sonic batarang on the floor. He picked it up, and a third sound chimed, this one from beyond the open door that led to the rest of the batcave proper. Interesting.

Clark followed the trail of batarangs as they led him through the quiet batcave, up the long staircase to the manor, and out through the secret entrance in the living room. Once inside the manor, caution got the better of Clark, and he sharpened his hearing to hone in on Bruce. It only took a second to find him—his heart beating a little faster than normal, his breathing a bit quicker, but otherwise healthy and safe. He also caught snatches of classical music, something dark, resonant, yet lovely. It made Clark’s heart beat faster, his steps quicker.

_Some couples leave trails of rose petals. We have trails of sonic batarangs._

The batarangs led him not up the stairs towards the bedroom, but down the hallway past the study, the media den, and numerous other rooms they never used. They went down the stairs, and Clark thought he’d figured out that they were headed towards the workout room until they passed it. Clark’s brow furrowed as he followed them down yet another, shorter flight of stairs. Really, how big was this place?

It only took another batarang to lead him to his final destination, adhered to the dark wood door at the end of the narrow hallway. They were two stories down now, and Clark could hear the rush of water through the pipes in the walls, the hum of electricity coursing through the wires. It felt like he was in some strange, subterranean world, led through a labyrinth to find the minotaur waiting at the heart of it. Clark took a deep breath, and opened the door.

_Wow._

It took Clark a few seconds to take everything in, even with his super-vision, his super-processing. He knew what he was seeing, but he…he just couldn’t believe it. It was a playroom. An honest-to-god playroom, very similar to the one in the first video Bruce had ordered him to watch. The brick walls were painted a deep burgundy red, the floor bare, polished concrete save for a plush, white sheepskin rug. The room was lit with several floor lamps that had been dimmed, and the glow of a pair of space heaters added a little red ambiance to the room. As for the furniture, it was fairly spartan. He recognized the St. Andrew’s cross, a few of the smaller tables, and a black standing tool chest that Clark was sure wasn’t filled with fix-it equipment. Most intriguing was the large, sheet-covered shape over by the free-standing mirror— _oh God, a mirror_ —that made Clark curious, anxious, and excited in machine-gun succession.

What really drew Clark’s eye was the familiar red velvet-lined chair sitting in the center of the room. Not the chair itself, which Clark had spent many pleasurable hours in, but the person sitting in it, staring at Clark with unchecked hunger.

He knew it was Bruce. He had the same sharp, ice-blue eyes. The same sensuous lips with the tiny scar on the upper bow. The same dark hair artfully tousled into a meticulously casual style. The same heartbeat, the same breathing patterns…but that was not Bruce in the chair.

No. It was someone else, who sat tall and regal as a king as he raked his lustful gaze over Clark. He wore nothing but black leather: a tight, zipped up vest with a mandarin collar that left only his muscular arms exposed, a pair of skin-tight pants, and a pair of smooth, knee-high boots. Clark recognized each and every one of those pieces from the emails Bruce had sent him throughout the week, and to see them here in reality, hugging Bruce’s muscular physique, made Clark’s tortured cock twitch to life.  

His fingers itched to feel the smooth, cool material, and he didn’t need his super-sense of smell to pick up the rich aroma, deep and dark, mingling with Bruce’s spicy cologne and musky sweat. It was intoxicating in ways Clark couldn’t explain, a heady cocktail that struck a deep chord inside of him. It stirred memories of the first time Clark had worked with Bruce—with Batman—and realized that he held more than a professional curiosity for this mysterious, leather- and kevlar-wearing stranger...

“Hello, boy,” Bruce said, his tone already low and silky. God, they were just going to jump right into this, weren’t they?

“Hello, Sir,” Clark whispered. It felt odd to say it out loud again, though he’d spent a week typing it, thinking it, dreaming it. As the word passed his lips, he gave a little shiver, heat flushing through his body.

“You found your way.” Bruce smiled, and it was a predatory smile, white teeth and crackling eyes. “Took you longer than I thought it would.”

“I…I’m sorry, Sir.” Clark bowed his head, already slipping into the headspace that he’d been fighting all week. Finally, finally, he was free to let it wash over him, all his want, his need coursing through him like molten gold. “I wasn’t sure where you were leading me.”

“Of course you didn’t. That’s the point, my boy, to trust me.” Bruce leaned forward in his seat, and Clark could hear the sigh of the new leather as it shifted over Bruce’s body. It made his cock throb, his stomach knot. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.” Clark didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he balled them into fists at his side. He wanted to go to Bruce, run his hands over that sleek, inky leather, bury his face against it and breath it in along with his musky sweat. Clark’s cock twitched again, pressing against the fly of his slacks.

“You’re hard.” Bruce’s eyes dropped to Clark’s crotch. “Very hard.”

“I’ve been hard for six days,” Clark groaned.

Bruce’s smile became wicked, and he made a little tsking sound in his throat. “I thought you said it was going to be easy to handle.” He reached to the low table next to him, and held up the silver cock ring that Clark had selected. “How am I ever going to get this on you?”

Clark swallowed hard. He’d been forcing himself to not think of these games for days; he could do it one more time. He cleared his mind, pushing all thoughts, all desires back into the darkness beyond his consciousness. He focused on his breathing, his pulse, the feel of the clothes against his skin…

“Undo your fly,” Bruce ordered. His voice was steely, but Clark thought he detected the slightest hint of admiration. “And come here.”

Clark did as he was told, crossing briskly to Bruce while unfastening the clasp that held his slacks closed. He came right up to Bruce, so that his knees almost touched Bruce’s, before Bruce stopped him with a hand on his chest. As his fingers grazed the crisp, white fabric, Bruce gave a low chuckle.

“You’re wearing your old play-clothes,” he said, and Clark could hear a note of genuine wonder underlying his commanding tone. “I love how sentimental you are.”

In keeping with the pattern of the day, Clark had decided to come wearing the pair of slacks and the shirt that Clark had last “borrowed” from Bruce and then had altered to fit him. It seemed more than fitting, picking up where they had left off. He’d hoped that perhaps Bruce would find a new, creative way of divesting him of the garments, but so far Bruce just traced his fingers down the row of buttons that kept the shirt closed until he reached the open V of Clark’s slacks.

Bruce hefted Clark’s half-softened cock in his hand, as if weighing it. Clark swallowed hard, fighting against the surge of sensation threatening to harden him again. He’d gone six days—six _days_ —without even stroking himself once, and now, Bruce’s fingers sliding over his flesh felt electric.

“Just a few moments more, and then you can get as hard as you want,” Bruce murmured. He maneuvered Clark’s cock through the silver ring, sliding his balls through as well. He pressed the cool ring down against Clark’s pubis, and it fit snugly around the base of Clark’s cock and balls. “There. How’s that feel, boy?”

“Perfect.” Clark’s voice quavered with excitement. Seeing the room and Bruce dressed up was one thing. Actually being touched was another.

_This is really, really happening._

“You should see yourself, boy. How gorgeously dirty you look with your cock and balls hanging out and bound in silver, with the rest of you so nicely dressed.” Bruce leaned back in his chair to study his handiwork.

Clark whimpered, his cock throbbing back to life within seconds. God, if Bruce could make him this hot just within the first few minutes of touching him…

“But I have much, much prettier things to dress you in, my boy. I made you a promise, didn’t I? More leather and metal than a motorcycle.”

Clark’s knees threatened to buckle, his breathing coming hard. “Yes, you did, Sir.”

“Then strip,” Bruce commanded. “Slowly.”

Clark swallowed hard, almost dizzy with excitement as his fingers skimmed over the buttons of his shirt. His hands were shaking, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He watched Bruce’s face intently as he revealed his chest inch by inch. When all the buttons were undone, he slowly shrugged out of it, letting it fall behind him. With his super-hearing, he could hear Bruce’s breathing hitch, his heartbeat increase.

“Now the pants,” Bruce said.

Clark slid the sleek fabric down off his hips, then shimmied until the pants were down around his ankles. As he stepped out of them, naked at last before Bruce, he drank in the look of dark pleasure on Bruce’s face. It hit Clark, suddenly, how this moment marked the first time that Clark had ever been allowed to see Bruce’s unfettered delight, unhidden by a mask or blindfold. Open lust shone in his pale blue eyes, and the very tip of his tongue darted out to wet his plump bottom lip. His hands tightened on the armrests of the chair, and he let out a long, slow sigh. His hunger was gorgeous to behold.

“You are so beautiful, boy,” Bruce breathed. “I’d keep you completely naked if I didn’t know how lovely you were going to look in what I got you. But first…”

Bruce picked up a small, familiar box, and Clark didn’t need to see the glow of green to know it was his kryptonite ring. He was already lifting his right hand before Bruce motioned for it. Bruce didn’t hand it to him, though. He took Clark’s hand, and slowly, almost reverently, slid the ring onto Clark’s third finger.

“This ring gives me power over you,” Bruce said, his voice suddenly serious. “By wearing it, you freely give yourself over to my care. Is that correct, Kal-El?”

“I do, Sir. I am yours to command.” Clark swallowed hard. Wow. Had…had he really said that? He’d fantasized about saying it, but to actually hear it come out of his own mouth felt so surreal.

Bruce grinned, and this time it was surprisingly tender. It warmed Clark in a different way, and before he could stop himself he returned the smile. In this one little moment, they weren’t Sir and boy—they were just Bruce and Clark…and they were about to have one hell of a night together.

“I think it’s time for the rest of your adornments,” Bruce said, his features composing themselves again into his predatory dom mask. He stood up out of his chair and Clark took a few steps backwards to give him room, even though all he wanted was to press his naked body to Bruce’s fully clothed one, feel the smooth, cool leather against his burning skin, rub his hard cock against Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce opened the drawer on the table beside him, and pulled out a wide band of royal blue leather with a buckle at the end and a large, silver loop in the middle. It took Clark a second to recognize it as a collar, and when Bruce held it out to him Clark eagerly leaned forward. God…Bruce had never collared him before. He’d had the medallion, which had served the same sort of psychological purpose. But Clark had  dreamed of the clasp of leather around his throat since he’d known these sorts of games existed.

Bruce buckled it carefully around Clark’s neck, and Clark shuddered in deep pleasure at the stiff constriction, his cock throbbing. It was high enough to scrape the bottom of his chin, forcing his head up so he could see the pleased expression on Bruce’s face.

“Lovely,” Bruce murmured. “The blue really sets off your eyes, my boy.” Bruce drank him in, and then gave a low chuckle. “You already have your hands clasped behind you. So eager to obey.”

Clark realized that Bruce was right, and he flushed slightly.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I need to see those wrists of yours.”

Clark held them out, pleased that he felt more excited than nervous. He trusted Bruce to respect his wishes for no metal cuffs, but he was still a bit concerned that even leather or fabric might be a bit triggering.

He needn’t have worried. The firm pressure of the matching blue leather cuffs was comforting rather than distressing. A hug rather than a bite. They felt surprisingly natural, and warmed quickly to his body temperature, just like the collar. They were a part of him.

“If you like those, you’re going to love this,” Bruce murmured, and pulled from the drawer what appeared to be a tangle of blue and red leather straps and buckles. He unraveled the strange garment, then began fastening it around Clark. When he was finished, Clark looked down to see a harness that criss-crossed across his torso, joined in the center by a large, silver ring.

“God, you are a sight to behold,” Bruce murmured. His voice was thick, low, as if he was having trouble speaking. “I think…I think you need to see for yourself.” He extended a hand to Clark, and led him over to the mirror. Bruce stood behind Clark, holding his biceps as if holding Clark up for the mirror’s scrutiny. “Look at yourself, my boy. Look how gorgeous you are.”

Clark didn’t recognize the man staring back at him in the mirror, this naked Adonis decked only in blue leather straps. The harness highlighted his thick pectorals, his well-built abs, and the cuffs made the muscles of his forearms seem all the more pronounced. The straps seemed to emphasize his nakedness, his bare cock hard, twitching and eager. Clark could see the glint of silver from the ring peering out from his trimmed pubic hair, and his breathing became erratic. His blood was thundering in his ears so hard he barely heard Bruce speak.

“Tell me what you see,” Bruce whispered, voice low and sweet.

“I see…” The man in the mirror’s lips moved, and Clark almost swooned. “I see me.”

_I see the me I’ve only dreamed about. A me that had existed only in fantasy, in the darkest corners of my mind. A me that I began to show you, Bruce, that you honed with your imagination and your caresses and your games. I see a me separate from Clark, from Superman, from the Last Son of Krypton. I see a me that is mine alone…and yours, Bruce. My Sir._

Clark’s head fell back on Bruce’s shoulder, and he felt a strange heat against the back of his eyes. His heart swelled with gratitude and amazement that Bruce not only didn’t judge him, didn’t simply accept him. He was feeding this side of him, exploring it right alongside him. Even if this was some strange, deviant streak in Clark, it was one that Bruce shared and complemented perfectly.  

“Are you all right, Kal?” Bruce asked, studying Clark’s face in the mirror’s reflection.

“Yes,” Clark breathed. “More than all right.” He nuzzled his head against Bruce’s jaw, pressed his hips back against Bruce’s to feel the leather pants against his bare ass. He gasped softly as Bruce trailed his fingers along the edges of the straps, the collar.

“I love seeing you in blue and red,” Bruce purred. “It suits you so beautifully. You’re too bright for black.”

Clark smiled, felt heat on his cheeks. “Black is _your_ color.” He wondered suddenly if he should’ve kept his thought to himself. They hadn’t really discussed whether part of the game was Clark relinquishing his power of communication as well. “Sir.”

But Bruce chuckled, and the warm sound vibrated his throat against Clark’s forehead. He reached down and gave Clark’s cock a tug, stroked his full balls. The blood pulsed through his cock, hardening it further, pressure building slowly behind the constricted flesh. It wasn’t enough to hurt—quite the opposite, in fact. It felt like it belonged on Clark. All of it did.

“I’d say you look ready to play, wouldn’t you?”

“I do, Sir.” Clark groaned.

“I’m going to keep you right on the razor’s edge tonight.” Bruce’s other hand slid up Clark’s body to his jaw, where he held his chin firmly, and the grip was almost more intoxicating than his hand on his cock. “I’m going to push you, and you’re going to push yourself. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to know how much strength of will you have inside of you, and it will amaze you.” Bruce’s eyes met Clark’s in the mirror, sharp and hungry as a hunter’s, and he growled low, “Are you ready to find out, my boy?”

Clark’s knees almost buckled, his entire being hot and needy and pliant. God, yes, he was ready. He couldn’t nod, so instead he whispered, “Yes, Sir.”

“Then let’s begin.”

**************

_God. I can’t believe how lucky I am._

He was glad Clark was wearing his kryptonite ring. With his super-senses, Clark could always pick up the subtle changes in Bruce’s breathing, his pulse, his expression, that led him to read Bruce like a book. And right now, all he wanted Clark to see was Bruce’s mask—the loving dominant, the man in complete control.

Inwardly, though, deep inside his heart, Bruce was barely able to contain his excitement. Looking at Clark—the love of his life, the man he’d desired so badly it had almost torn him apart—draped in blue and red leather, his gorgeous eyes so wide and disbelieving and almost _innocent_ in their amazement just made Bruce want to laugh in joy. For all the trappings, for all the games of control and submission they were playing…this, this wasn’t coming from a place of darkness and pain—a place Bruce knew all too well. That was the place where Batman was born, where he fed. No, this was all from a place of light, from the same well that had made Bruce buy that big screen TV for their Thanksgiving dinner, that had made him join Clark to meet his parents for Christmas. The place that would do anything, anything in the world, to show Clark just how deeply he was loved, needed, cherished.

“My boy,” Bruce breathed, planting a soft kiss on Kal’s smooth cheek. “My Kal.”

He let go of Kal and placed his hands on Kal’s shoulders. He pushed down gently, and Kal sank down to his knees. Kal’s eyes widened, his breathing becoming slightly erratic. Then Bruce turned and walked over to the St. Andrews Cross. “I think we’ll start easy. Come over to the cross, boy. On your hands and knees.”

He watched, holding his breath. This had been Kal’s idea, not Bruce’s, and he’d been surprised when he’d mentioned it on Sunday, when they’d been…negotiating in bed. Now, though, Bruce was curious to see if this was actually something Kal wanted—something flirting on the edge of humiliation—or something that had just sounded good to him at the time.

Slowly, so slowly, Clark leaned forward until his hands were on the ground. Bruce waited. He half expected Clark to stand, or to look up and say he’d changed his mind about this aspect of the game. Bruce wouldn’t hold it against him. It was one thing to relinquish control, another to relinquish dignity. And crawling was definitely not dignified, especially for a man like Kal.

Kal took a deep breath, and began to crawl. If it could be called that. He moved slowly, deliberately, his head bowed. Bruce was mesmerized by the way the muscles in his back and legs shifted under his tanned skin as he moved. It was like watching an animal, a tiger in no hurry to get a drink of water, and he felt his cock twitch in the confines of his leather pants. He’d ordered Kal, and he’d obeyed.

When Kal was before him, he stopped, and Bruce saw that he was shaking. Hard. So Bruce reached down and tilted Kal’s face up to him, to make sure he was all right. Clark’s face held no distress—his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, his lips parted and moist in rapture. Bruce couldn’t help himself: he leaned down, and pressed a kiss to those lovely lips. Kal’s mouth opened instantly, his kiss soft and yielding. It made Bruce almost dizzy.  

“Well done, my boy.” Bruce stood, and patted the dark wood. “Now stand up, facing the cross, and grab the rings above.”

Kal eagerly complied. The cross forced his arms up and a bit to the sides, and he spread his legs to match until his body was in the shape of an X. Bruce couldn’t help but admire him anew. He’d missed this so much—Kal’s body on such gorgeous display. True, they’d been naked together plenty of times in the past few months, but this was different. This was presentation, an offering of Kal’s flesh wrapped in leather ribbons. His ass was so naked, so firm, that Bruce couldn’t help but run his hands over the muscular curves. By the time Bruce was done, they would be glowing red.

“I think we’ll start with a warm-up.” Bruce picked up a light suede flogger with numerous tails, and swung it in the air, hard enough to make it whistle. Clark’s back and buttocks tensed in anticipation. “You remember this one, don’t you, boy?”

“Yes, Sir.” Kal’s voice was strained with excitement.

“Tell me, how long have you been missing its kiss?”

“Since the last time you used it on me, Sir.”

Bruce swung it in the air again, just to watch Clark shiver anew. Then, gently, ever so gently, he brushed the tails lightly over Kal’s buttocks. He did it again, and again, swinging the flogger back and forth like a pendulum, almost as if he were sweeping Kal. He trailed it over his back, his biceps, the backs of his thighs. Bruce knew that the leather strands were waking Kal’s already heightened nerves, centering him on the sensations. There was no place here for worries or fears. All there was room for was the feeling of dozens of soft, leather strands brushing his skin.

Once Bruce saw Kal’s shoulders relax, Bruce began increasing the tempo bit by bit. He continued his circuit across Kal’s body—biceps, back, buttocks, thighs—and each time he quickened his strokes a little bit more until he was lightly flogging him. Kal began to moan softly, and Bruce wished he’d thought to position another mirror behind the cross so he could watch Kal’s face. But, no, that would be distracting, and Bruce needed all his focus to be on his aim, the story Kal’s body was telling him with twitches and flinches and sighs.

It went on for another few minutes, until Bruce decided that Kal was ready for something a bit more intense. He switched the suede flogger for a longer one, the tails a stiffer leather. He swung it in the air, the sound cutting through the air with a loud swoosh.

Kal’s breath hitched.

“You remember this one, too, I gather.” Bruce began swinging it lightly, cutting a figure-eight in the air so the tips barely touched Kal’s skin. It was enough, though, and Kal’s back muscles shifted and jumped under the caress. “I remember how this one made you dance.”

Kal whimpered low in his throat, his head falling forward as far as it could in the collar.

“You ready to dance for me, my boy?” Bruce asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bruce smiled to himself. He continued his figure-eight, his wrist doing most of the work, watching Kal’s anticipation grow. Then, finally, he twitched his wrist on the downstroke, and hit Kal with a degree of force. The leather straps lashed across Kal’s left buttocks and he whimpered, his back arching. Bruce resumed his soft teasing for a few more seconds, then lashed out again on the right, harder. Kal’s cry was sharper, sweeter, music to Bruce’s ears.

This was the song, and Bruce had missed it so. The rhythm of Kal’s excited breathing, the sigh of leather cutting through the air, the beat of it striking Kal’s skin. The chorus of grateful cries, the occasional yelp of surprise as Bruce struck harder than before. This was what Bruce loved about these games—it wasn’t the pain he inflicted, but _how_. His cock had softened, but every nerve in his body was taut, every part of him perfectly in tune with Kal—every twitch, every cry, every moan. Kal was his instrument, and a deep satisfaction radiated from the core of Bruce’s being as he played him.

_God. I can’t believe how lucky I am._

*************

Clark was utterly and beautifully lost inside himself. His eyes were closed, and with every strike of the flogger red lashed across the blackness behind his eyelids. His skin was practically sizzling it was so electric, every place the leather struck coming alive.

His mind had remembered how much he’d missed this, but now that his flesh was feeling it again his entire being thirsted deeply for more sensation. Another strike lashed across his back, biting stripes of delicious pain into his skin.

This was why he did this. To let himself _feel_. He spent every waking hour trying so hard to focus on one thing at a time, when the whole world was constantly assaulting his super-honed senses with its sounds and smells and sensations. With the Kryptonite ring on, all that was gone, and Clark could just let go. He didn’t need to concentrate. There was nothing that concerned him. No one to save. No articles to write. No secret identity to keep. This moment was just for him, every lash driving him deeper towards the bright core inside himself, his thoughts further and further away. It was beautiful.

It seemed to go on forever, but still not long enough. Eventually, Clark heard Bruce hang the flogger back up on the rack on the wall, and Clark let out a long, slow sigh. His entire back felt hot, like freshly banked coals. He imagined that he was glowing pink from his shoulders to his thighs. Then he felt Bruce’s hand stroking his inflamed skin, ever so softly. Clark whimpered, arching back into Bruce’s gentle touch.

“Your skin is so hot, my boy. It feels like the sun,” Bruce said, his voice adoring. He pressed a little harder, following the contours of Clark’s muscles, and Clark’s skin burned hotter even as the muscles underneath loosened under Bruce’s touch.

Then Bruce’s fingers trailed down over the burning swell of Clark’s ass, down, until he was cupping his balls from behind. A jolt went through Clark, arousal stirring anew. Whenever Bruce played with him like this, he tended to go a bit soft, the sensation of being flogged something different than pure sexual arousal. But once Bruce began teasing him again, Clark was always more receptive, his nerves already heightened and hungry for more sensation. Today was no different. Bruce’s feather-light touches on his exposed balls felt amazing, and he groaned, spreading his thighs just a bit wider by pushing his ass back.

Bruce squeezed Clark’s sac a little tighter, and he pressed his thumb against the exposed opening of Kal’s hole, not penetrating, but simply exerting pressure. “You’re such a greedy little thing. Presenting yourself like a bitch in heat.”

The words rocked straight to the core of him, and a soft, strangled sound rose from deep in his throat. He pressed his ass back even harder against Bruce’s hand, trying to get him to slide it in. The very, very tip of the thumb breeched Clark’s tight entrance, and he groaned in anticipation…until Bruce simply left it right there. Clark pushed back again, trying to get more, but Bruce held him—was fucking holding him—by the perineum, his fingers cupping his balls, thumb pressed against his hole, palm spanning across the sensitive skin in between.

“You want to get fucked, don’t you?” Bruce growled. “I haven’t even touched your cock, and I can feel just by how your balls twitch that you want me inside you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes!” Clark yelped. His knees had gone weak, and he gripped the rings tighter to keep himself upright.

Bruce let go of Clark’s perineum, and he pressed his hips against Clark’s ass. The cool, smooth leather of Bruce’s pants felt heavenly against Clark’s burning flesh, and he couldn’t help but rub himself against Bruce. Bruce groaned and pressed his hard bulge against him. Clark bit his lip, whimpering as the leather flap of Bruce’s fly scraped against his hole.

“Yes what?” Bruce commanded, grabbing Clark’s hips and pulling him back sharply.

“Yes, Sir!” Clark’s face burned as hot as his skin.

Bruce pulled away enough to reach between them, using one hand to unzip his pants. Within moments, it wasn’t just a bulge, but Bruce’s bare cock that was sawing against Clark’s exposed opening. Clark screwed his eyes shut, rocking his hips back.

“I was going to make you wait,” Bruce said. Clark could hear him fumbling in one of the drawers in the tool chest within arm’s reach of the cross. “I was going to make you suck me off while teasing yourself, rubbing that hard cock of yours over my leather boots, just like in that dirty little video I know you watched more than once.”

Clark whimpered, a jolt going through his cock at the remembered imagery from the video, the feverish dreams he would have each night after watching it. God, he would do it. Without question, he would drop to his knees right now and rub himself to orgasm against Bruce’s boot. Fuck, he’d rub himself on just about anything if it would grant him some relief.

“But no. You had to be a greedy little thing, begging with this hot ass of yours.” Bruce’s hand smacked against the side of Clark’s buttock, and he jumped at the sting. Then, he heard the snap of the lid of a lube bottle opening, and felt familiar, cool slickness against his hole. The blunt head of Bruce’s thick cock nudged against his entrance, and Clark’s entire body quivered in anticipation. “So instead, I’m going to fuck you.”

Bruce rubbed the very tip of the head against Clark’s opening. Slowly, as Clark’s muscles relaxed, he pushed in a little more, and a little more, teasing Clark with shallowest of thrusts. He never quite penetrated, just pressed, and every time Clark was on the verge of real discomfort Bruce would pull back and resume his rubbing. It was driving Clark crazy. “Please!” he gasped. “Please fuck me.”

“I am fucking you, boy,” Bruce growled. “Fucking you how I want to, not how you want. You’re mine, remember?”

A hot, delicious knot tied itself in Clark’s belly, and he let out a low moan. He pushed his ass out even further, willing his muscles to relax, draw Bruce in further. But Bruce was relentless with his teasing, and Clark thought he would go mad.

“You’re so tight,” Bruce murmured. Clark felt one of Bruce’s hands slide from Clark’s hip, up over his ass, and then down to where Bruce’s cock was pressed against him. Suddenly, it wasn’t Bruce’s cock, but his finger that was rubbing against him, finally pressing inside of him. Clark gasped, partly in relief, partly in pleasure, and rocked his hips back to get more, eager for friction, for fullness, for _anything_. He waited for Bruce’s second finger, or for him to start stroking Clark in and out, but instead, Bruce pressed harder, and up and— _oh_! Stars burst behind Clark’s eyes as the tip of Bruce’s finger rubbed over Clark’s prostate.

“There, right there.” Bruce pressed his weight against Clark, leaning forward until he could whisper into his ear. “Right there is where you want my cock, isn’t it, boy? Pressing against this sweet little spot here?” He wriggled his finger again, sending another cascade of sparks dancing through Clark’s nerves.

“Yes!” Clark moaned.

“Yes, what?” The finger wriggled again.

“Yes, Sir!” Clark’s entire body thrummed as he spoke. A wave of heat rippled through him, feeding the desire for more more more—

Bruce withdrew his finger, and Clark whimpered in disappointment. Bruce’s finger returned a moment later, slick with more lube. It rubbed and stretched Clark’s hole, never once sliding so deeply back in, no matter how much Clark arched his back and whined.

Finally, when Clark was ready to scream in frustration, Bruce repositioned himself behind Clark. “You ready, boy?”

Clark had barely begun to nod when Bruce drove his cock deep, pushing all the way until Clark could feel the zipper of his pants cutting into the swell of his ass. Clark was stunned, his breath caught in his throat, his entire being centered on the sudden sensation of being filled. Then, just as he was used to it, Bruce pulled out completely. He resumed his tormenting thrusts, and Clark let out a strangled moan.

It went on like that forever, with Bruce toying with Clark by never setting a real rhythm. Clark could barely think: all he knew was want, then the glorious fullness, then emptiness again. It was downright cruel, and Clark wondered dimly how Bruce could stand it himself.

“You make the loveliest little sounds of dismay, my boy,” Bruce crooned. As he drove in again, he let go of one of Clark’s hips to slide a finger into his mouth. Clark sucked it greedily, needing something, anything to anchor him. His own cock was rock-hard, untouched by Bruce, throbbing in the open air. He knew that all Bruce would have to do was stroke it once, and he’d come.

“You know I’m not going to let you come like this, don’t you? Not even going to touch your cock,” Bruce said. His voice was becoming raspier, his thrusts staying inside Clark longer and longer. “You haven’t earned the right yet.”

Clark nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was so hot, so eager, and every time Bruce’s cock nudged against the secret spot inside of him he had to struggle to hold on to his control. Somehow, Bruce telling him he couldn’t come just made him want to all the more, and he fought against the waves of sensation rolling through him.

Bruce began to thrust faster, harder. He wasn’t pulling out at all anymore, just rolling his hips against Clark, pulling him back tighter against him.

“I’m going to come inside of you, my boy. I’m going to come deep and hard, and you’re just going to stand there and take it. Is that understood?”

Clark couldn’t answer. His throat was as tight as his balls, Bruce’s words striking even deeper than his cock. God, if he spoke, he’d come, he’d come, he’d come—

“Is. That. Understood!” Bruce barked, his voice every inch Batman’s.

“Yes, sir!” Clark choked out, then immediately clamped his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to use the pain to center himself. He squeezed his fists tighter around the rings, felt the wood of the cross biting into his chest, trying to feel anything but Bruce’s cock pounding into him, his hard, leather-clad body pressed against him as he held on tighter and tighter and—

Bruce let out a strangled cry, driving himself into Clark as hard as he could. Clark bit down on his lip even harder, tasting his own blood. He _willed_ himself not to feel the wetness slicking Bruce’s cock, not to acknowledge that Bruce was coming inside of him, filling him, marking him, while Clark’s own cock remained neglected, as it had been for agonizingly long days. This…this was just cruel, and that dark, strange part of Clark—the same part that loved crawling for Bruce, loved calling him Sir—drank it in like wine.

Finally, Bruce stilled. He pressed a soft kiss to Clark’s shoulder, lazy and sated. “I feel much better now, don’t you?” He let out a low chuckle. “Oh wait, that’s right. You didn’t get to come.”

God, Bruce was really enjoying this, too. The thought made Clark’s cock throb even harder, and he let out a soft, strangled moan. “No, Sir, I didn’t.”

“Good boy,” Bruce purred. He hadn’t pulled out yet, and the feeling of prolonged penetration was making Clark squirm, want to push back to gain friction again. “You demonstrated good control.”

“Thank you, Sir.” God, he didn’t know how much more of this he was going to be able to take!

Finally, Bruce pulled out. Clark felt fluids rush out of him, and he pressed his burning face into his arm.

“You should see yourself, Kal. Flogged, fucked, and dripping wet…all while you’re still hard. I didn’t even tie you down. You stood there and took it. You took it all.” Kal heard Bruce zip himself up, saw a small white towel hit the floor in front of him. He wondered, then, what Bruce would use to clean him up…

“Let go of the rings. Follow me,” Bruce commanded.

Clark realized suddenly that Bruce wasn’t going to clean him up. He was going to leave him, wet and used. The thought was so deliciously distracting that he didn’t even realize his mistake until Bruce made a little disapproving noise. Too late Clark realized he’d been walking after Bruce. Not crawling. He swallowed hard, and immediately dropped to his knees.

“I didn’t say that you could walk, did I?” Bruce chided. He placed a hand on the back of Clark’s head.

“No, Sir,” Clark whispered. Disappointment flooded him, and he wondered what his punishment would be. Would Bruce put him back up on the cross, make him take more lashes? Bend him over his knee and spank him? Deny him orgasm even longer?

But Bruce’s only ran his fingers through Clark’s hair, lovingly. “Follow me, Kal.”

Clark crawled slowly after Bruce, keenly aware of the trickle of fluid coursing down his thigh. He wasn’t sure where Bruce leading him, perhaps back to the chair, until he realized they were headed for the sheet-covered lump in the corner. Clark’s curiosity knotted in his stomach. He was already so close to the edge, so needy, he didn’t know if he could handle another elaborate game.

_I’m going to push you, Kal, and you’re going to push yourself. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to know how much strength of will you have inside of you, and it will amaze you._

Clark nodded to himself. If Bruce thought he could handle whatever was behind the sheet, then Clark could handle it. He wouldn’t let Bruce down.

Clark sat back on his heels just as Bruce swept the sheet from the…the…God, what was it? It looked like some sort of gym equipment, with a lateral pull-down bar hanging from a system of pulleys over a metal frame. Clark’s gaze followed the cable attached to the hanging bar, up over the frame, around the pulley, down to where the weights were…where the seat was...

_Oh. Oh God._

*************

“You said you missed my little toys, Kal. So I made a new one for you.” To be fair, Bruce had begun working on it almost a year ago, and hadn’t finished it before Kal had ended their relationship. It had been cathartic to complete, and it had been easy for him to pick up where he’d left off. Bruce was surprisingly proud of it—a lateral pulldown machine from his personal gym that he’d made some…modifications to. He ran his hand over the metal frame, pushed the hanging bar with one finger to make it rock in the air. “Do you like it?”

Clark’s jaw was slack, his eyes wide as he took it in. His expression hovered between awestruck, terrified, and excited and Bruce didn’t blame him. It was an intimidating-looking device, especially if you looked at the seat. There was a hole cut out in the middle of the bench, big enough to let a long, black dildo protrude halfway out. Clark looked between the dildo and Bruce, realization dawning in his lust-fogged eyes.

God, Kal was so far gone, so lost in desire and the need to please. His cock was harder than Bruce had ever seen it—partly due to the cock ring, but mostly due to all the teasing and denial—and Bruce knew it would only take the slightest touch to send Kal over the edge. It was right where Bruce wanted him. Now that Bruce wasn’t distracted by his own pressing need, he could focus all of his attention on Kal, guide him through this last—and most challenging—game.

“Stand up, my boy,” Bruce ordered, “and come here.”

Kal only hesitated a moment before gracefully rising and joining Bruce at the machine. He let Bruce guide him onto the short, vinyl-covered bench, straddling it facing away from the machine, just in front of the dildo.

“You’ll notice the bench is a bit lower than most lat machines,” Bruce said, keeping his tone conversational. “Because you’re not going to be sitting. You’re going to squat. Work those gorgeous thighs of yours as well as your arms.” Bruce slapped Kal’s right thigh lightly, then traced the groove of muscle up, up, dropping his fingers right before they brushed Kal’s impossibly tight balls. Kal moaned and quivered in disappointment. “Patience, my boy. First, you have to earn it.”

“God…I’ll…I’ll do anything, Sir,” Kal whispered. “Please…”

God, he was already begging. This was going to be fun.

“Patience. I have to get it ready for you.” Bruce picked up a condom and the bottle of thick lube he’d placed at the base of the machine. In its resting post, the machine allowed the dildo up as high as it would go, which was about eight inches. He’d picked one similar in girth and length to one that Kal had enjoyed the most in their previous games, so he knew it wouldn’t be too much for him to handle. He rolled the condom onto the dildo, and poured a generous amount of lube along its length. As he stroked the shaft, the back of his hand kept brushing along Kal’s spread ass, and every time, he jumped, moaning softly.

“It’s ready,” Bruce said. As he put his hands on Kal’s hips to pull him back, he leaned over and whispered into his ear, “I don’t need to lube you up, do I? You’re still dripping wet with my come.”

Kal let out a keening moan, his hips rocking back involuntarily. The dildo slid into the crack of his ass, and Bruce lifted a bit, encouraging Kal to stand up slightly off the bench. Kal understood what Bruce wanted, and with his breath coming in shallow pants, he positioned himself above the toy. It was easy, so easy to slide it into Kal, his hole freshly stretched and softened, but Bruce stopped him before he sank back down completely onto the bench.

“Grab the bar above you, and pull down until it’s just above your head.” Bruce instructed. Kal complied immediately, and Bruce watched carefully to make sure everything was going according to design. He’d tested the machine himself—and that had been a fun afternoon, indeed—but what really mattered was how Kal reacted to it…

“Oooooh!” Kal moaned as the dildo slid out of him halfway, the ridged shaft creating exquisite friction. In his surprise, his hold on the lateral bar slackened, and he let it move up a few inches. The dildo slid back up into him, and he cried out again. He looked up at Bruce, his blue, blue eyes bright with amazement, his gorgeous lips parted in a small, panting smile. He liked it.

“Good, it works.” Bruce’s voice was calm, but inwardly he was cheering. Even before their discussion, Bruce had figured out that part of being “helpless” for Kal wasn’t so much about bondage or discipline—it was about the surrender of his physical strength. This was a man who could race a bullet train and win, who could cut through mountains with his fists. Hell, he could probably push the damn moon out of orbit if he had to. But with the ring on—he was just like a normal man. A very fit, very strong man, to be sure, but still a man with limits. Kal loved feeling along the edge of those limits, and Bruce’s task was to find new ways for him to do so. This was his most devious game yet.

“Here’s your task, Kal. I want you to hold that pose for five minutes. You don’t get to sit, and I want that bar to stay two inches above your head.” He grabbed the center of the bar, and pulled it down a little bit, eliciting another gasp from Kal. “Right there.” Bruce reached down under the machine, and pulled out a timer with a bright blue digital display. “Five minutes…no wait,” he looked at Kal with a sly little smile, “you were a bit disobedient back there. I think it’s going to have be six minutes, thirty seconds, an extra half-minute for every step. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, a sort of pleased determination on his face. He wasn’t straining yet, the squat wasn’t too deep, and there wasn’t much weight against the lat bar, but Bruce knew from experience that longer he held the pose, the harder it would become—especially since each time he moved he would drive the dildo further into himself.  

Bruce set the timer, and placed it on top of a nearby table, in plain view of them both. Then, Bruce took a few steps back and admired his work. The pose showcased Kal’s already pronounced muscles, and Kal’s expression—somewhere between determination and delirious desire—was a thing of beauty. Bruce’s heart squeezed, and again, a warm, disbelieving gratitude flooded him. This…this was a gift beyond measure.

In six minutes and twelve seconds, Bruce was going to return the favor.

***********

Six minutes. Clark could do this. He’d endured far more strenuous trials before. Sure, he’d done it when he had his full strength, but he’d done some time in Bruce’s gym with the ring on—

His grip shifted slightly on the bar, and the dildo pressed up into him, sending a hot lance of pleasure through him and banishing all rational thought. Clark gasped, and repositioned the bar, moaning as the ridged toy scraped against his enflamed flesh again. He wanted more. So, so much more. He wanted to let the bar go, sink down onto the seat, and ride the cock until he came. It would only take a few thrusts at this rate…but no. Bruce, his Sir, had told him what he had to do, and Clark was going to do it.

So he gritted his teeth, tried to focus on the blue numbers rapidly counting down. If he could just calm himself, find his center, he would be able to endure the mounting discomfort as well as the building pleasure—

A small, sharp tink pulled his attention back to Bruce. He was holding a short length of silver chain, about the size of a thick necklace, between his thumb and forefinger. He swung mesmerizingly, like a hypnotist would a pocket watch, and as he stepped back over to Clark he saw what was hanging at the ends of the chain—two tiny metal clamps. His heart almost stopped.

“No,” he breathed, a strange sort of panic flooding through him. It would be one thing to maintain this pose while untouched, another while being tortured, teased…

“Is that an I’m afraid I’ll come, no, or a real safeword no,” Bruce asked. His face was serious.

“I’m afraid I’ll come,” Clark answered automatically. He looked up at Bruce to let him read his expression, but the motion made his shoulders twitch, his arms raise the bar slightly. He sucked in his breath, hurrying to correct his mistake before the wave of pleasure ended and he created a new one.

“You won’t,” Bruce assured him. Content with Clark’s answer, he straddled the bench in front of Clark, sitting down facing him. Instead of snapping the clamps on right away, he stroked Clark’s cheek with his free hand, trailing down his neck, tracing his collarbone. “You’re stronger than you know, Kal. You can do this.”

Clark nodded slowly—difficult as it was with the stiff collar—Bruce’s voice flowing through him like warm honey. He could do this. He could do this for his Sir.

Bruce turned and looked at the clock. “Less than five minutes now.” He held up the clamps so Clark could see them. He remembered them instantly, and bit his lower lip between his teeth. They looked harmless enough, their flat, metal ends coated in black rubber to soften the bite, but they each had tiny screws that let Bruce increase the pressure as he saw fit. He gave Clark a devious smile, and opened up the first one. “Now, hold still.”

Clark tensed his entire body, determined to keep as still as possible. When he felt the bite of the first clamp on his left nipple, he sucked in his breath in through his nose as a sweet lance of pain went through him. It dulled quickly to a pervasive ache, and Bruce was merciful enough to not tighten the screw more than a single turn. He duplicated the procedure on Clark’s other nipple, and this time it was harder to hold still as the clamp bit deep into the soft little bud.

The clamps weren’t the only reason it was becoming harder to hold still. His muscles were actually starting to protest a bit, not ache, but letting themselves be known. He took another deep breath, putting his focus on the lovely pressure on his nipples—

“Ahhh!” He cried out as Bruce pulled the chain lightly and ache turned to genuine hurt. He rocked forward involuntarily, pulling the bar with him. The toy slid out of him a few inches, and Clark swallowed hard as he realized he was going to have to slide it back in just as far.

It went on like this for an eternity. The seconds felt like minutes, the minutes like hours. Every twitch, every movement only magnified the sensations, the strain. Clark’s orgasm hovered just under the surface of his need, pressing against the barrier of his will. Bruce kept weakening that barrier by tugging on the chain, running his hands over Clark’s straining muscles, watching him with those crystalline eyes. Oh God, his eyes. Clark had missed this—that feeling of having his secrets exposed layer by layer by Bruce’s laser-sharp gaze.

“Two minutes,” Bruce announced. He ran his hands over Clark’s thighs, and laughed softly. “You’re sweating, Kal.”

Clark realized it was true. He never sweated—except with his ring on. His muscles were aching, trembling, and he knew what Bruce was asking of him would be almost impossible for a normal human.

“I don’t know…I don’t know if I’m going to make it,” Clark whispered.

“You can do it,” Bruce soothed. He palmed Clark’s cheek. “You’ll do it, or you don’t get to come.”

“Bruce, I—”

“Sir. Don’t make me add more time, boy.”

Clark whimpered, looked down, trying ignore the burning in his thighs, his back, his arms. God, would Bruce really do it? Deny Clark an orgasm after all of this? He would…wouldn’t he? It’s what Clark had asked of him—a real threat over his head. God, it had sounded like fun in theory, but now, he was pushed so hard, stretched so thin. He was completely made of want at this point. He wanted to come. He wanted down from this pose. He wanted to please his Sir…and that was the want that kept him going.

“One more minute.” Bruce’s voice took on an excited tone. He scooted closer on the bench, so that his knees touched Clark’s legs. He brushed his finger along the chain between the clamps, and Clark’s nipples were so sensitive from the prolonged constriction that even that sent a wave of pained heat through him. His moan changed in pitch. His breathing was just one long moan now—a moan of discomfort, of pain, of pleasure. His tired muscles couldn’t help but make him move the lateral bar, shift against the squat, and the dildo had been slowly and shallowly fucking him for what felt like hours.

Bruce’s finger trailed up the inside of Clark’s thigh, but instead of stopping, like it had before, it probed higher, rubbing against the inflamed skin of his stretched hole. Clark almost squealed, bucked forward, right into Bruce’s other hand as it cupped his balls. Twin jolts of pure pleasure cut through Clark’s pain, cutting through the barrier of will he’d struggled so hard to maintain.

“No…nononono…” Clark danced back, trying to escape Bruce’s hands, but it only drove him deeper onto the dildo. It struck against his soft, secret spot, and he cried out in blissed agony as his grip on his control slipped further from his grasp. “Stop, Sir, stop, please!”

“Are you telling me what to do?” Bruce asked, his voice molten steel. “It pleases me to toy with you, boy. Don’t you want to please me?” He massaged Clark’s hole with one hand, just as his other trailed a slow, lazy line up the underside of Clark’s neglected cock.

“Yes!” Clark’s voice cracked along with his composure. “Yes, I do, but, but—”

“Then hush. You only have thirty-two seconds to go.” Bruce brushed Clark’s cock again, giving him a slow, sly smile. “Your cock is so amazing when it’s this hard hard. Look at that, this vein…” He traced his finger over it, and Clark bit his lip, hard, against the sensation. “Your cockhead is practically soaked.” Clark squealed through his nose as Bruce slicked Clark’s precum gently across the head of his cock, rubbing the slit lightly. He was so distracted, so tired, his grip began to slip again, his legs began to falter, and he pinioned himself on the toy so it hit his spot again—and the grip on his control began to slide out of his grasp.

“I can’t! I can’t I can’t I can’t! Bruce, Sir, please please please—” he was babbling now, incoherent, his need, his pain taking control.

“Twenty seconds!” Bruce barked.

“I’m not going to make it!”

“Yes, you are!” Bruce snapped, and used his free hand to grab Clark’s hair and tug sharply so his head snapped up. “Look at me, boy! Look me right in the eye!”

Clark did as he was commanded, gathering the tattered shreds of his control, his endurance, and focusing on Bruce’s eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes, that were looking at him with so much love, admiration, lust, like Clark was something rare and precious and strong—

“Ten seconds,” Bruce whispered. He wrapped his hand around the shaft of Clark’s cock, but didn’t stroke. Even the promise of the reward was almost too much.

“Please…please now…”Clark whimpered. Heat was gathering behind his eyes, a strange pressure, as if the pressure building everywhere else in his body was seeking any outlet for release. He couldn’t control them all, and he let the wetness slide down his cheeks unabashed.

“Five seconds.” Bruce’s body was tense, his lips parted in anticipation. His eyes glittered with wonder. He let go of Clark’s hair, and slid a hand down his cheek, trailing his tears down his jaw. “Three seconds.” He grabbed the chain between the clamps, tightened his grip on Clark’s cock. “Two seconds.”

“Now now now now please please—” It was coming. Like it or not, he was coming, even as he struggled to hold on to the fraying rope it was racing out of his control, slicing him along the way, and the wail began building in his chest, every ounce of pain and need and frustration as he failed failed failed his Sir—

“Now! Now, my boy! You can come! Let go of the bar!” Bruce cried out.

Clark’s world became a red explosion, his wail building into a scream. In the same instant that he let go of the bar and slammed his full weight down onto the fully exposed dildo, Bruce yanked off the loosened nipple clamps. The pain exploded like twin sunbursts, fueling the storm racing through him as Clark fucked himself shamelessly on the toy. As he glutted himself, Bruce furiously stroked Clark’s cock with his lube-slicked hand, ripping Clark’s orgasm from him in violent spasms. Clark didn’t think he’d ever stop, each wave building onto the next, scouring him clean of all thoughts, all desires, all needs. He was just light, bright red light, racing through space, through darkness, beyond anything, anyone…he was free.

It was Bruce that pulled him back out of that sweet abyss, his voice quietly crooning, “there you go, there you go,” as he stroked the back of Clark’s head. Clark realized that he’d sagged forward, was resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder, was looking down at the constellation of white streaking across the black leather covering Bruce’s chest. He tried to return to himself, to his body, but…but there were too many things in the way. Too many straps, too many toys, muscles quaking so hard he didn’t know if they’d ever stop.

He was aware of Bruce guiding him forward off the toy, and the feeling of emptiness after being filled so long almost shocked him. He was so utterly drained that he barely registered it as Bruce wrapped his arms under Clark, pulled him up off of the device, and lowered him gently on to the ground beside the machine. Now Clark realized why the white, furred rug was so close to it, and he relished the softness, the coolness against his burning skin as he lay on it alone.

Alone.

The emptiness inside his body grew, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, and he let out a soft, strangled sob. He had no control over himself, his emotions, everything given, everything taken, surrendered…

“Shhh, Kal, I’m here.” Bruce was there in an instant, laying down beside Clark. His eyes were so bright, so concerned, that Clark wanted to reassure him. He tried to tell Bruce that he was fine, more than fine, he was so amazing that he was starlight, but all that came out of his mouth was another gasping sob.

Instead, he reached for Bruce, pulling at the zipper of his vest. Bruce seemed to understand, and he unzipped the come-streaked leather, exposing his sweaty skin. Clark gravitated to Bruce, burying his face into his chest, feeling the scratch of hairs against his cheek, inhaling the musk of his sweat mingled with leather. Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark tightly, quaking just as hard.

Breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat, Clark found the way back to himself, guided by Bruce’s soft murmurs, the brush of his hands along his burning skin. He removed Clark’s collar, stroking the skin of his neck gently, reverently, before scooting down until he could see Clark to study his face. Finally, he broke out into a cautious smile. “There you are, Kal.”

“Here I am,” Clark replied, his voice surprisingly hoarse. His entire body—no, his entire being—felt slack, deliciously liquid, and he gifted Bruce with a wide, lazy smile.

“You had me worried there for a minute,” Bruce admitted. “I thought…I thought I’d pushed you too hard.”

“Not too far. Just far enough.” Clark stretched in Bruce’s embrace, relishing the delicious ache that went through him. He’d missed this feeling, the whole-body peace that came only from this kind of play. But it was better, so much better now, feeling Bruce’s arms around him, his body against him, his heart beating in tandem. He brushed his fingertips along Bruce’s lips, and with every bit of gratitude in his soul whispered, “Thank you.”

“God, thank _you_ ,” Bruce murmured, gazing at Clark with a mixture of awe and gratefulness. “This…this was definitely the best gift I’ve ever received. Ever.”

“Great,” Clark chuckled, unable to hide the lightness in his heart. “Now how am I going to top myself next Christmas?”

He realized suddenly what he’d said. “Next Christmas.” Up until last week, he would’ve worried that he’d assumed too much, was pushing Bruce for commitments he couldn’t give. But between Christmas with his parents, and now this late New Year’s celebration…Clark felt a certainty in his heart he’d never felt before as he looked into Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce was his. Not just now, not just this year.

For the rest of his life.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Bruce said quietly. Even as he tried to tease, there was a quaver edging his voice. He touched Clark’s face, tenderly, and leaned in to kiss him. It was soft, languorous, sweet, and when Bruce pulled away, he looked at Clark with brightness in his eyes. “You are a wonder, my Kal-El.”

Clark buried his head against Bruce’s chest again, feeling the rapid rise and fall, the music of his heartbeat.  He began to drift again, enjoying the feeling of Bruce entwined around him. Eventually, though, one of them shifted, skin peeling off skin with a sticky scrape, and Clark winced.

“We should get cleaned up,” Clark sighed. He hated to leave this little cocoon of warmth, and he knew as soon as he let go of Bruce he’d be mentally gone—checking in with the batcomputer via his wrist comm, mentally planning his nightly route as Batman.

“We should.” Bruce kissed Clark on the forehead, like he always did right before sliding away. He took his time divesting Clark of the harness, cuffs, and cock-ring, and Clark sighed a little as the warm air of the room caressed the sweaty skin that had been hidden underneath.

“God, I don’t know how I’m going to walk,” Clark chuckled. He stretched his legs, feeling his thigh muscles quiver. “I think I’m going to have to take off the ring and fly up to your shower.”

“I have something even better.” A smile crossed Bruce’s face.

“Oh?” Clark arched an eyebrow curiously.

Bruce knelt down beside Clark, and before Clark could stop him, he slid one arm under Clark’s legs, and another under Clark’s back. “Hold on.”

“Bruce, what are you—” Clark’s protests died in a disbelieving laugh as Bruce picked him up like a damsel in distress. Clark’s arms automatically wrapped around Bruce’s neck, and he looked up to him to make sure Bruce wasn’t regretting his gallant gesture. He was straining a bit, but he only smiled at Clark as he carried him—actually carried him—to the door.

“Little help,” Bruce muttered, and Clark let go long enough to open the door for them.

“Bruce, you’re never going to make it all the way down the hall, up three flights of stairs!”

“Don’t have to.” Bruce turned right rather than left, deeper into the dark hallway. What Clark had perceived to be a dead-end was actually a small elevator, just big enough for the both of them to fit when Clark tucked his legs closer. He closed the metal grate to the elevator, and at Bruce’s prompting, pulled the level. The ancient elevator creaked to life, raising them up out of the basement.

“It’s an old servant’s elevator. It runs up behind the kitchen, but the last round of renovations covered the access. Then I realized it also ran up to the bedrooms, too…”

“You knocked out a wall?” Clark’s eyebrow arched incredulously. “You knocked out a wall to do this?”

“No. There was still a door to the bedroom wing. I just had to unlock it.”

Clark swallowed hard, and pressed his head against Bruce’s shoulder. This…this was amazing. No one had carried him like this, not since he was a child. He felt so completely safe, so entirely loved…and he closed his eyes and savored the moment.

Eventually, the elevator ground to a halt at the top level, and Clark opened his eyes to see the familiar hallway that made up the bedroom wing. Clark opened the gate, and Bruce carried him down the hall and into his bedroom. Bruce nudged open the door to his en suite bathroom with his foot, and he placed Clark in the large, empty tub with a groan. Clark pretended he didn’t notice how Bruce’s hands went immediately to his spine. He was young, and very, very strong, but Clark was definitely not light cargo.

Bruce started the taps on the tub as Clark activated the stopper, and he leaned back against the cool porcelain as the large tub filled with warm water. Did Bruce have a heater right under the bathroom or something? Clark had never lived anywhere where the water came out warm automatically. Not that he was complaining, and the water felt divine as it covered his legs, his waist, his abdomen.

He watched as Bruce stripped off his leather garb—shrugging out of his open vest, sitting on the toilet to slide off his high boots, then peeling the tight leather pants off his legs. It was quite a lovely show, and Clark hummed in appreciation as the leather peeled away a bit at a time to reveal Bruce’s pale, scarred flesh underneath. It took Bruce a bit to work the tight leather pants off off his sweaty legs, and Clark couldn’t repress a laugh as Bruce finally kicked the pants off with a triumphant grunt. Gone was his Sir, left in a pile of leather clothes on the floor, and his partner, his love, stepped towards the tub with a smile.

“Scoot over,” Bruce said, grabbing two bottles of orange Gatorade off the counter. Clark did as Bruce requested, and as Bruce stepped into the tub, he handed Clark one of the bottles.

“Gatorade?” Clark looked at the bottle in surprise. “Not quite champagne, is it?” Clark’s heart sank a bit. Of course Bruce didn’t want to drink. Batman would be going out soon. He’d want all his faculties about him.

Bruce cracked open his bottle and took a long, long swig, draining half of it in a series of gulps. “Hydrate first. Then champagne.”

Clark was so surprised he didn’t even bother to remind Bruce that he didn’t need to hydrate. “Are you, um…are we staying in?”

Bruce held up his wrist, and Clark’s eyes widened. He had been so engrossed in their scene that hadn’t noticed that Bruce wasn’t wearing his batcomputer watch. For the first time ever since he’d started, Batman had unplugged himself from the network. Clark looked at Bruce, read the dim fear in the back of his eyes, the worry underscoring his determination.

“You’re not the only one trying to learn to let go of control,” Bruce said quietly. “Alfred’s got the comm for the night while he’s out. Just…just in case.”

Clark looked down at his ring, realizing what this meant. Without his super-hearing, he couldn’t hear if he was needed somewhere in the world…

“We’re off the grid,” Clark breathed, the realization both exhilarating and terrifying. He looked at Bruce with awe in his eyes.

“The world got by before Superman and Batman,” Bruce said slowly, measuring his words. “I figured, maybe…maybe it could get by for just one night.”

Clark swallowed hard, floored by what Bruce was saying. This was an enormous step for Bruce, a willingness to let go of his illusion of control, to simply be here in the moment with Clark. Clark realized it would be a feat for him as well, to banish the worry that he was missing something important, that tragedy would strike and it would be his fault for not being there to stop it.

There would always be tragedy, though, and pain, and death on Earth. There had been long, long before Kal-El had arrived. It was not his responsibility to try to prevent it from happening everywhere at once, all the time. That thinking led to madness, martyrdom. He was just one man…and right now, in this moment, he was just like everyone else on earth. Except better. He had Bruce.

“I think—I think the planet will still be standing in the morning,” Clark whispered. He turned off the tap, then nestled himself against Bruce, back to chest. Bruce’s arms wrapped around Clark automatically, and Clark let his head fall back on his shoulder, watching as Bruce pressed the button to activate the jets in the water. Perfect.

“Happy new year,” Bruce murmured, pressing a kiss on the top on Clark’s head.

“I cannot think of a better way to start off the year.” Clark sighed happily. He was more relaxed, more centered than he’d ever felt in his life, and he found Bruce’s hand to twine their fingers together.

As they sat, Clark looked at the pale band of skin where Bruce’s watch usually sat, then at the kryptonite ring glowing on his finger. A strange realization struck him, an odd wave like déjà vu. This relationship, this union of theirs had changed _something_. A small shift in their universe. He didn’t know how, but this change in Bruce was significant.

God, what would have happened to him—to both of them—if they’d never started down this path together? Would they have remained only reluctant allies, or could they have become real friends? Would Clark have given his heart to Lois instead, and Bruce remained closed off, too afraid to trust anyone?  Maybe…maybe without Bruce to center him, remind him of what humanity meant, then Kal-El would have become the monster-god that he most feared he’d become, some twisted Justice Lord. Clark shuddered.

“You all right?” Bruce murmured, squeezing Clark’s hand.

“Yeah,” Clark whispered. Those fears didn’t matter, because in this lifetime, this world, he and Bruce were together, paired in heart and flesh and spirit. “Just happy.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”


End file.
